


Chicago Transit Authority

by fistfight



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, M/M, Making Out, Oral Sex, Singing, this was supposed to be cute but it turned into porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 00:23:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2088684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fistfight/pseuds/fistfight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the tumblr prompt: “you know you’re singing to your headphones out loud, right”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chicago Transit Authority

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, this shit got long.

Pete’s noticed that the El is always disgusting and dangerous. Somehow, this never bothers him, as he’s waiting on the gum stained concrete, the sense of casual pickpocketing and tourists’ motion sickness makes him feel kind of at home. He rocks back on his heels, a habit of being bored he’s had since he was a kid, and sighs as he checks his phone in case someone’s texted him anything interesting for once. Nobody has, of course, but the train should be here anyway, so he shoves his phone back in his pants and rocks back again. Summer in Chicago is gross and humid, but in the evening the Lake Effect gets it cool enough for him to wait outside and not pass out.

His ears perk up, as he hears someone, a guy, singing from around the the exit into the station. Probably another street performer that doesn’t understand that this is definitely not the right place to be fishing for people’s money. If the guy were here to maybe take a quick piss in the corner, then he’s found the right place, but Pete can hear his voice coming closer, and Pete swears, if this is one of the people who come and stand in front of you and sing until you shove a dollar in their hand, Pete will kick the dude in the crotch.

He can’t deny, whoever it is has got a great voice, one that’s smooth and full and deep. He even has decent music taste (Pete thinks this is something Bowie), but he’s just not in the fucking mood, so he’s resisting the urge to glare at the guy and have his stare be misinterpreted as a “come on over and sing in my fucking face”. Whoever it is, is singing quietly enough for Pete to ignore, thank God, but he’s literally standing right next to him, and Pete just wants to see who this person is, at this point.

He expects some twenty-something art school dropout in an oversized jacket and “fashionably” torn jeans, but does a double take when it’s just some dude in a sweater that Pete’s grandma would wear, singing along with the headphones stretched over his beanie.

Pete’s expression goes straight from mildly pissed off straight to amused. What can he say? he appreciates humor at the expense of others every now and then. He doesn’t even seem to realize he’s singing, but he seems into it, drumming his fingers on his thigh and sort of bobbing his head along when he gets to the chorus. He’s completely oblivious. Pete loves this guy. He’s fucking hilarious.

The guy doesn’t stop once the El comes, and he doesn’t stop when he gets on it, either, sitting in across the aisle from Pete, who chooses the window every time, for sentimental childhood values, and shit. Fuck, he’s 27 and he still dyes and straightens his hair, he can be mature elsewhere.

The guy’s music must be on shuffle, because he’s switched into a much less appropriate Blink-182 song, and damn, Dysentery Gary is a classic, but a mom with a stroller has haughtily moved to the other end of the car. The other people, most of them dressed in business attire, watch her like they might want to follow her lead, then turn their gazes back to the still oblivious man, whose voice somehow still resonates through the car that is otherwise occupied by meaningless chatter.

A woman talking on her cellphone says, “Hang—hang on, Kathy, I cannot believe the music people listen to these days. This man in here is swearing along when there’s a goddamn child!”

Pete resists the urge to point out the woman’s use of expletives and turns to the guy, preparing to end his long lasting humiliation, and, ultimately, Pete’s source of entertainment.

Pete slides across the somewhat sticky, plastic seats and reaches across the aisle for the guy’s shoulder, tapping it twice and smiling sweetly. The man immediately stops singing and pulls off his headphones to leave them sitting on his shoulders.

“Dude, you know you’re singing to your headphones out loud, right?” Pete asks. The dude’s previously pale face flushes to a stunning shade of pink that Pete could probably never achieve with his own skin tone.

“Oh my God, I am so sorry, I didn’t even know, I’m sorry.” The guy blabbers out, before pulling his phone from his backpack to pause the music. He roughly shoves the headphones in there, too, and Pete’s fairly certain that’s an expensive brand. Maybe Pete should had delivered the information in a nicer way, this guy looks so fucking embarrassed, his blush has even spread to his ears.

“No worries.” Pete says, sliding back to his seat. A few minutes later, Pete glances over to catch the guy, who’s still blushing, staring at him with wide eyes. His face returns to the stunning shade of pink it had reached earlier. Pete smirks at him, and tries not to laugh as the man probably gives himself himself whiplash snapping his head away so quickly.

Pete gets off to switch lines at the nest station, fully aware that he’s being watched as he steps onto the platform.

-

Pete doesn’t work on the weekend, but he does hang out with his stoner friends. Really, they only do it socially, but Frank has been stoned to the point of immobility more than once, and Joe just really likes weed, so Pete calls them his stoner friends. If he’s going to hang out with them so often, he may as well give them a title. Whatever, Joe has a nice apartment anyways. Like, real leather couches and all that shit.

“Dude,” Joe says, pausing to take a hit from the blunt they’ve been passing around, “When’s the last time you had, like, a girlfriend? You can’t keep hanging out with me and Frank.”

“Wow, homophobic.” says Frank.

“Or boyfriend.” Joe amends.

“You guys are single, right? Why are you giving me shit?”

Frank laughs that dumb, high-pitched giggle of his, “Dude, okay, we’re not seeing anyone, y’know? But we ain’t _lonely_. You’re like, dependent on love.”

“You’re too high for life advice, Frank.”

Then again, Pete’s too high to drive, so he just breathes in the smoke filled air and tries to ignore how Frank just made him sound like those of the teenage girls he chased after ten years ago.

Life is shit.

-

On Monday, Pete half-heartedly glances around for the singer. He’s not on the platform, and Pete’s not creepy enough to go looking for him. He briefly wonders if he got scared off for a few days, that his momentary embarrassment led him to taking a later train until he was sure the twenty-some people that heard him in the first place. But then, the guy’s an adult. Adults get over shit.

On a completely unrelated note: Pete’s always been really bad at getting over shit. Especially people.

-

Tuesday evening, it’s raining, which is a nice change from the heat, but it’s also very wet. Pete doesn’t really want to get his hair wet and then suffer from his afro popping up, so he wait until the last possible second to leave his office, to see if maybe the rain will stop (it doesn’t, it just gets worse), and then sprints all the way to the station. Sure, he could just take the next one, but that’s no fun. Exercise is important, anyway.

The doors are just about to close when he practically leaps through them, leaving him dripping a small puddle onto the dirty floor of the carriage. Pete would take a window seat, but all of those are full, so he’s left to find a seat next to a stranger. Preferably, not a creepy one.

The train jolts into movement as Pete walks down the aisle slowly, trying not to stumble as the El bounces and shakes along the track, and sits down next to the least threatening passenger he can find. Someone dressed inconspicuously and is more interested in their phone than whatever weirdo is sitting next to them.

“Did I scare you off yesterday?” Pete asks, looking at the man currently occupied with updating his twitter status.

The man shuts off his phone and looks up, visibly confused until he sees Pete’s face. His mouth drops open a little, and his eyebrows arch up slightly.

“I wasn’t—I was _sick_. I couldn’t go to work.” He says, sounding indignant.

“Well, whatever.” Pete says.

“You sound like you don’t believe me.”

“I believe you. Yeah, you were sick. In the summer.” Pete says, in that voice people use to sound like they think you’re calling bullshit, but in reality, Pete’s just fucking with this guy.

“Don’t be an asshole.” He says, sounding amused.

“I’m the biggest asshole you’ll ever meet.”

“I figured that part out.”

“You’re no cup of sunshine either, dude.” Pete stands up to get off, arching his shoulders back to stretch. “This is my stop.” He says, then heads towards the doors, trying to keep his balance on the now slowing train.

“My name’s Patrick.” Comes a voice from behind him, struggling and almost succeeding in sounding like a casual, last minute thought, instead of a nervously debated statement.

Pete doesn’t turn to look back, or acknowledge what that guy, _Patrick_ , apparently, has said. It seems kinda weird, that Patrick felt the necessity to make sure Pete knew who the guy he’d (gently) humiliated was.

Well, he likes that Patrick has a proper title, but Pete will just forget him soon, anyway.

-

“Soon” isn’t anytime in the next week, because Pete sees Patrick again, waiting on the platform, with his headphones no longer absent. Pete walks up, and waits inconspicuously (he hopes) behind him. And he’s _singing_ again. Well, actually, not really. He’s just humming. But still, it sounds fucking good. It’s nothing Pete’s ever heard before, but shit, it doesn’t matter. All Patrick’s sound is coming from deep in his chest, soulful, but still quiet enough that he’s definitely not doing it for attention.

The train arrives, and Patrick steps on, Pete following behind him. Patrick sits down, claiming a window seat (to Pete’s dismay), and Pete sits next to him. It seems that when he’s singing, or humming, whatever, Patrick is really oblivious to whatever’s going on around him. He’s looking out the window, watching the rest of the people standing on the platform race by, like Pete does. Pete wonders of Patrick has a thing for window seats, too, but doubts it.

Pete taps his shoulder lightly, like on Friday. Patrick’s humming stops, and he turns sharply, looking confused, but not embarrased.

“Was I singing again?” he asks, recognizing Pete.

“Humming, this time.” Pete quips, smiling wickedly.

“Well, fuck.” Patrick pauses his music and pulls down his headphones, looking more pissed-off at himself, and not as embarrassed. Patrick’s shy, no doubt, and Pete guesses the reason he’s not turning red again is because they’ve bonded a bit. Pete knows this is over-analyzing, but Patrick’s an interesting guy.

“You were good? I mean, like, I enjoyed listening to you.” It’s the truth.

Patrick looks at him for a second, and bites his lip. He’s hesitating. “Would you wanna listen to me again?” He asks.

“You’re not going street-performer on me, are you, dude?”

Patrick laughs, high-pitched an nervous. He’s visibly uncomfortable at this point, not embarrassed, and not blushing, but kind of like how Pete’s sure he looked when he told his parents he was moving to the city. Butterflies, y’know? “No, um, I’m not. But I play shows, sometimes. At bars and stuff. And you’d only have to pay extra if I’m opening for someone. But. I was wondering if you’d want to come one night?”

Pete wonders if this is Patrick’s way of asking him out. “‘Like a date?” he asks.

Patrick’s face is turning pink again. “I’m not that good, I don’t even have a band, it’s just me doing shitty acoustic covers and you really don’t have to come, alright? I was just—just wondering. Because—”

Pete interrupts Patrick’s rambling, because it wasn’t answering his question at all and the kid is working himself up into a flustered mess. It’s endearing, kind of. “Well, I’m coming either way.” He fishes out his phone from his phone, and hands it to Patrick, who stops fiddling with his hat to take it. “Put your number in, and I’ll text you later.”

Patrick obliges, wordlessly tapping in his contact information before returning Pete’s phone.

“See you tonight,” Pete says, standing up to get off.

“Yeah.” says Patrick, “See you.”

-

Pete is actually psyched. Not like, “Metallica concert!” psyched, but like, “This guy and I have mutual interest in each other!” psyched. Pete likes shit to be casual, see, so he waits around half an hour to text him.

_“hey patrick where are u playing”_

Pete briefly wonders if Patrick even gave him the right number. He could have mistyped, or something, and then Pete couldn’t even try to see him, because he wouldn’t know anything about where to go, and then he’d see Patrick the next day on the platform, and Patrick would think Pete had just ignored him so he’d just deliberately go into a different car than Pete, and then he’d go home and think bad things about himself and not be able to sleep, and Pete would just be confused and then they’d never talk again and—oh, he just got a reply.

It’s a screenshot of a bar’s address and phone number. He recognizes the name, he thinks he’s been dragged there before by some people from his office.

Pete gets, _"I play around 7:30”_ a few seconds after.

He sends _“can’t wait”_ and hopes he doesn’t sound like a sarcastic fuck.

_“Thanks for coming”_

Pete doesn’t know how to respond to that. “No problem” sounds like he’s coming out of pity, and “you’re welcome” sounds like Pete has an ego problem. He settles on the winky-face emoji and gets in the shower.

-

Pete shows up to the bar at about 7:50, not because he wanted to but because he got lost. Which is a dumb excuse, but he’d somehow convinced himself he could drive there without the help of google maps, and, well, that didn’t really work out.

It’s loud, the chatter swells up and echoes off the walls, but he can hear Patrick from the door. He’s just humming, singing non-words softly, playing the guitar right now, changed into ripped black skinny jeans and a tee shirt, sitting on a bar stool on the stage, which is only elevated a foot off the ground. He’s looking down, towards his hand that’s strumming, either very concentrated, or very shy. Pete takes a seat at the bar close to the stage, and orders a beer.

Then, Patrick sings. “ _Is the life on Mars?_ ” His voice crescendos, gets more and more passionate as he sings the chorus. He sings the last note, vibratos it to be high-pitched and  beautiful, holding it out as he tilts his head back from the mic to avoid getting feedback. His voice, it’s fucking unreal, not just the sound, but the range. Patrick’s not even straining to get to places Bowie probably never expected anyone to reach if they were to cover his song.

Pete’s forgotten his drink on the counter, the condensation dampening the cracked wood, but dear fucking God, who could blame him. When the song ends, there’s polite clapping, and Patrick quickly thanks the audience before taking a drink from his bottle of water. He catches Pete’s glance as he sets the bottle down, smiles and waves quickly before starting the next song.

All the songs are covers of hits, things people have heard before and that they want to hear. Most of it’s rock, nineties Blink-182 and Green Day, and eighties alternative. There’s pop sprinkled in, because that’s what people want to hear. Patrick goes as far out of his way to sing Taylor Swift, which some drunk girls in the back (try to) sing along to. Patrick smiles at them, laughs a little bit in the middle of the chorus.

Pete’s mesmerized. His voice is intoxicating, definitely more so than the drink he’s finally managed to finish. He doesn’t order another one—he has to drive, anyway—but he doesn't want to take his attention off Patrick. Pete’s not a singer. He’s screamed before, but his voice hasn’t ever been anything near as charming as Patrick’s. It’s actually kind of an attractive trait, now that he’s thinks about it. Having a capable mouth is definitely a plus in any relationship.

Patrick’s set ends on the cliche of Green Day’s “Good Riddance”. The entire venue claps, some out of obligation, most because they actually enjoyed themselves. Pete’s with the latter, bitterly wishing he’d shown up earlier as he whistles obnoxiously. Patrick looks up from where’s he’s packing up his guitar, then raises an eyebrow and smiles.

Patrick was singing for over an hour, it’s nine now, but when he approaches Pete, his voice is still soft and clear and shy. “Thanks for coming.” he says. He looks like he means it.

“Dude,” Pete says, “That was fucking amazing.”

“Thanks, dude.” Patrick says, and rubs the back of his neck.

“It was really hot.” Oh, Pete didn’t mean to say that. It’s hard to tell if Patrick’s blushing, under his heat-flushed cheeks, and his ginger-blonde hair sticking to his face with sweat.

“You like my mouth?” Oh, apparently Patrick’s not embarrassed. This lack of shyness is kind of a new thing for tonight, he seems to be getting some kind of performance high that boosts his confidence. Pete can’t complain.

Pete can feel the bartender watching them, watching their bodies get closer, and clears his throat. Patrick takes a step back, not sure if he’s said the wrong thing or not. “You walked here, yeah? Let me, uh,” Pete says trying to come across with the message of “ _Yes, I really like your mouth_ ”, “Let me drive you home, Patrick.”

Patrick gets it, nods and smirks in confirmation. “Yeah, I did. Thanks.”

-

The car ride home is kind of awkward, not with sexual tension but more with the fact that they’d been so hyped a few minutes before, and now they were separated by the gear change and bucket seats.

Patrick gives directions and they make small talk, mostly about work, and how they both know Joe Trohman, and realizing neither of them know each other’s full names.

“I have like, the worst initials. P-M-S. Technically, it’s P-M- _V_ -S, because it’s Patrick Martin _Vaughn_ Stump, but you’re supposed to ignore the “Vaughn”, I think.”

“Patrick, dude, mine’s worse, okay—”

“Turn right,” Patrick cuts him off.

“Okay, ‘cause my name’s Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III.” Pete finishes.

Patrick giggles, and Pete calls him out on how unmasculine it was, which makes Patrick laugh more, and when they get to Patrick’s apartment, they say their goodbyes happily, completely forgetting about sex. God smiles down on the holiness and lack of homosexuality, and all is well.

-

Oh, fuck no. No, they get inside Patrick’s apartment, and Patrick slams Pete against the door as soon as it’s closed, standing on his toes to bring their mouths together and kissing him, biting his bottom lip a little before pushing his tongue inside. Pete reacts, bites back a little and twists and untwists their tongues together. Patrick’s a lot more smooth, more graceful, everything he does is for a reaction, but Pete’s just getting what he can, making a mess of spit and grinding without any rhythm. Patrick pushes his hips up into Pete, and inhales sharply, like he was in between verses up on stage.

“Bedroom.” Pete says, breathily, and Patrick nods, takes his hand and drags him down the hallway.

Pete presses a kiss to Patrick’s lips before pushing him down on the bed. Patrick adjusts himself so he’s sitting on his knees in the middle, and Pete crawls to him on his knees, putting a leg on either side of Patrick and rising up so his dick is right in his face.

Patrick, the talented motherfucker, undoes Pete’s pants’ button and pulls down the zipper with one hand, the other gripping Pete’s ass.

Patrick pulls off Pete’s shirt, then on a second thought, his own as well. He rests both his hands on Pete’s hips, before pulling  his jeans and boxers down to his knees painfully slowly, his hands sliding back up his legs and to cup Pete’s ass after he does so.

“Wait. Condom.” Pete says, and hates to make them stop but Patrick’s quick with pulling on from the nightstand drawer,  unwrapping and sliding it on. Pete’s dick is very erect, and Patrick smirks up at him, licking the head just to make Pete squirm, before putting his cock in his mouth, doing something that can only be described as _swirly_ with his tongue before going straight into the actual good part, and fuck, Pete can’t help but thrust into Patrick’s rhythm. Patrick’s taking long pulls and it’s agonizing, but Pete’s damned if he doesn’t love it.

The pale man’s lips are red and wet and swollen, and it’s very hot. “Fuck, Patrick,” Pete says, because it feels right. Patrick responds with a murmur, bringing a hand to the base of Pete’s dick and uses it in time with what he’s doing with his mouth.

Pete determined a few hours ago that Patrick’s mouth is magical, but holy fuck, this is unreal. Patrick is dragging his teeth along Pete’s dick, just the way Pete likes, and Pete makes a strange noise in the back of his throat he’s never heard himself do before. He’s got on hand on the back of Patrick’s neck, the other on his shoulder, kind of pulling him towards his crotch.

“I’m,” Pete starts, then is forced to stop when Patrick licks the underside of the length of his dick, “I’m close.”

To his dismay, Patrick pulls off, and presses a wet kiss to his bartskull tattoo. “Good.” He says. He then grabs Pete around the torso and pulls him down so he’s on his hands and knees. Patrick makes a show of taking off his pants and underwear, kicking them to the side, and putting his own condom on his erect cock, biting his lip the whole time like this sort of thing takes a lot of concentration. He gets lube, puts it all over Pete's dick, making him moan in the process, and Pete wants to come, but knows better than to do it now.

 

Patrick grabs Pete's hand and puts lube all over that, too. “Fuck me.” Patrick demands. He’s obviously not that submissive for a bottom, he’s got himself propped up on his elbows and his knees bent, with a facial expression that’s sort of slutty, but in a good way.

 

Pete starts gently, pushing one finger inside Patrick. Patrick exhales, long and controlled. He slides in and out, gaining speed and getting more and more of a reaction from Patrick until he decides his dick would be better at this point.

Pete slides in, not breaking eye-contact with Patrick, who’s gasping right now, little effeminate sounds that are driving Pete insane.

He sets a motion tries to go as rhythmically as he was being blown before, but settles on going as hard and as fast as he can, watching Patrick’s hips buck up with him and how Patrick making little humming noises with each thrust.

Everything about this is fucking perfect, the difference in their skin tones is artistic, Pete’s tattooed and is the color of milky coffee all over, and Patrick’s as pale as one can get without being sick or dead, with orangey freckles decorating the tops of his shoulders.

Pete hits Patrick’s prostate, and his orgasm is beautiful. He clenches around Pete’s dick and basically sings out instead of moaning. The sound of Patrick cumming is enough to set Pete off. He cums inside Patrick, loudly and messily. His whole body jerk, but he stays upright, inhales and exhales deeply and closes his eyes.

“Holy shit,” says Patrick, breathing hard. Pete collapses next to him, smiling, watching their bare chests rise and fall out of sync.

They get under the covers, because, _“It’s fucking cold, I don’t care if it’s summer, Patrick_ ,” and Pete pulls Patrick close so they’re spooning, with Patrick’s ass pressed against the lower part of his stomach. He puts one arm under Patrick’s neck so they can lay comfortably together, and wraps the other around his torso. Pete kisses his neck, sucking and biting, licking the length of it until he gets to Patrick’s jaw, then presses his lips to the bone and holds him tight.

“Sing me to sleep, please.”

Patrick sighs, but sings for him anyways. “Under Pressure”, it turns out, makes a very good lullaby when sung by Patrick Stump. Maybe it’s because he can hear the sound vibrating through both their bodies, or because Pete’s just a sucker for that song, but Pete’s out after the first chorus.

-

They wake up to the cruel bleeping of Patrick’s alarm at six the next morning. Pete feels Patrick untangle himself from Pete’s limbs, and reach over to shut the sound off.

“Oops,” says Patrick, “I’m sick again.”

He might actually be in love with this man. “Oh, fuck, I’m sick too.” Pete mumbles. He’s not really up for talking right now, because it’s so damned early, but Patrick’s humming something, something sexy and Pete fucking loves it, so he stays awake as long as he can.

Inevitably, he falls asleep again, but he can just make Patrick sing for him again later.

 ****  
  



End file.
